


Steal or starve is where it's at

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Angst, Implied Pau Gasol/Juan Carlos Navarro, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of 2010 and Juan Carlos might mix up some names, but he doesn't get much else wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal or starve is where it's at

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Marc Gasol aka Mr.Bear aka My Spirit Animal aka The Box-Shaped Grizzly aka The Sweetest Badass Ever! This is actually an adaptation of something I wrote last week in italian, but heck, who cares. Plus, I actually like this one a little better than the original, so.
> 
> Enjoy~

It’s summer and it’s hot and sunny and sultry, and Marc is absolutely certain that the clear sky hanging thick and almost turquoise over his head is the best omen anyone could be hoping for.

The last few days before training camp begins apparently have no intention whatsoever to go away; they crawl away, sticky and quiet, and it feels like time got stuck, the sand baked into a nice bun that will never ever slip through the hourglass’ neck.

Until finally, finally, Marc is sitting in his car waiting for Juan Carlos, the red suitcase and the red backpack and the red gym bag with the National Team crest sewn on all safely thrown in the trunk.

The sun burns hot and yellow, and Marc just _knows_ that this is going to be an epic summer.

 

The first time it happens, Marc is in the bathroom. His cellphone, lost somewhere inbetween the blankets of his unmade bed, starts ringing. Juan Carlos is half laying down and half sitting on the next bed, and he doesn’t even tear his eyes off the book he’s reading.

“Pau, your phone,” he calls out, and then bites his lips when he realizes his mistake (which he realizes right away, because there’s too many misplaced details: the ringtone is wrong, the room is a mess of dirty laundry and empty packets of snacks, and also, Pau would never ever go take a shower leaving Juan Carlos _to read_. Completely dressed. He would never).

 

The second time, they’re having a friendly little game at practice. Juan Carlos really needs a block to get Sergio off his tail, so he doesn’t even look up, the oldest instincts he has already kicking in.

“Pau!” he barks, and waves the hand he should use to protect the ball into the universal gesture of _Jesus H. Christ what are you doing, come here and make yourself useful_.

Sergio looks baffled for half a second, which is exactly all the time Juan Carlos needed to take a step back, therefore allowing Pau — _Marc_ , — to slip into the space between them. Marc gets a nice Llull-shaped tattoo on his front, while Juan Carlos runs straight to the basket and this time, he doesn’t realize anything.

 

It happens again and again and again, Pau’s name keeps rolling off Juan Carlos’ tongue before he can think about it twice, but then again, up until now Juan Carlos never _had_ to think about it twice. It’s summer and he’s training with the National Team, so it’s obvious that Pau should be there; he’s always been, just like Juan Carlos has always had two arms.

Marc finds the entire thing extremely funny, and soon enough he starts answering right away whenever Juan Carlos calls out for Pau; there’s this amused flash in his eyes every time it happens, which makes Juan Carlos blush a lot and stick his elbows up into Marc’s sides.

Marc usually throws his arms around him and laughs into his neck.

 

The days keep getting longer and hotter, practice keeps getting longer and more and more tiring, the sun almost unbearably yellow. Marc is not so sure anymore that the smiling sky is actually friendly, but there’s not much he can do, except humor Scariolo and his crazy systems in the mornings and, in the evenings, try not to lose even his underwear playing poker.

Juan Carlos seems peaceful, unflappable as ever, and he doesn’t drop his extra shooting sessions even though there’s nobody worth to challenge. Whenever he finally walks into the changing room, his skin is beaded with tiny drops of sweat.

Juan Carlos feels Pau’s absence as if he was missing a lung, as if half his field vision had suddenly been burned away. It’s astonishing, then, how he manages not to whisper the wrong name, when Marc’s hand is in his pants and Marc’s mouth is busy sucking at his neck.

“ _Marc_ ,” he sighs, and he grabs Marc’s hair and Marc half expects him to add, _don’t leave any mark on me_. Juan Carlos doesn’t say anything else, however; he just arches up and against Marc’s hips, against Marc’s hand, heavy on his lap.

Marc tries to shut everything down to the perfect moment when Juan Carlos rubs softly against his palm; it’s too hot to freeze time, though, so Marc scrambles to take off his and Juan Carlos’ clothes. When he pushes his thumbs along Juan Carlos’ hipbones, he can’t help but think what the fuck would Pau say, if he saw them right now. What the fuck would he say, if he saw the red angry marks he’s biting everywhere on Juan Carlos’ skin?

And then nothing’s really as meaningful as the way Juan Carlos is warm and turned on under Marc; Juan Carlos’ entire body is shaking with want and this is something Marc did.

The thought strikes Marc like a blast: he’s the reason why Juan Carlos’ cheeks are flushed and so wonderfully pink, Juan Carlos spreads his legs a little to answer the touch of Marc’s fingers, Juan Carlos’ breath catches in his throat because of _Marc_. It feels weird and great, but mostly great, to brush the tip of Juan Carlos’ cock only to find it wet and swollen for _Marc_.

Juan Carlos has been Pau’s for so long it’s actually surprising that they can function even if they’re apart, and now he’s biting his lips and looking at Marc like that and it feels almost unreal; Marc pinches the inside of his arm, just to be sure, and of course Juan Carlos sees him and huffs a little laugh, pushes the heel of his foot into Marc’s hip.

“Okay,” Marc says, under his breath.

Juan Carlos’ eyes are dark and soft, his lips a swollen stain of red in the middle of his black beard, and Marc could never resist him. He’s always had a thing for Pau’s stuff, since they were kids: his big brother’s Christmas presents always looked better, his crayons a little brighter, his toy soldiers cooler, his clothes more comfy and everything he did, everywhere he went, Marc used to follow him suit; he picked up his first basketball because of his brother, and now he has Juan Carlos.

Juan Carlos arches off the bed and into Marc, now; he sighs Marc’s name and grabs Marc’s shoulders and it’s Marc’s erection that slots against Juan Carlos’. Now Marc shifts and thrusts into him, overeager; Marc pinches and touches and nips and kisses and tastes the bittersweet, summer-y taste of Juan Carlos’ sweat pooling in the hollow of his collarbones.

It’s Marc who gets to watch as Juan Carlos’ breath shatters, as he presses his eyes shut and lets a soft, wet moan slip through his lips; it’s Marc who gets all of Juan Carlos’ touch, the shy brush of slim fingers down his back and along his side and suddenly dropping to the base of his cock, tugging languidly and way, way too slowly.

It’s Marc who kisses Juan Carlos and growls into his mouth, it’s Marc who shifts against his palm and doesn’t even care he might look a little too needy and desperate as he rubs down into him. It’s Marc, it’s just Marc, his head hanging heavy and his arms tense, his forehead pressed to the curve of Juan Carlos’ shoulder, and Juan Carlos looks a little happy, even if it’s Marc, even if it’s just Marc.

Marc bites half a laughter and the left half of Juan Carlos’ chest doesn’t feel al litte less hollow, and a little less heavy.  



End file.
